


THE PREFERRED CUSTOMER AFFAIR

by fhsa_archivist



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-15
Updated: 2007-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-05 18:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: On Christmas Eve, 1963, Napoleon decides to take a walk; Illya takes a short cut ;  on Christmas Eve, 1983, fate gets help from a pre-NCIS Donald ‘Ducky’ Mallard





	THE PREFERRED CUSTOMER AFFAIR

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thank the Lord this story is finally done! I have worked on it for about two years. The boys have made me change special occasions, and holidays, so many times its not funny!  


* * *

TITLE: THE PREFERRED CUSTOMER AFFAIR

Author: Jatona Walker

Fandom: Man From UNCLE

Beta/Suggestions: Ann Booker, Ren and Susan_Peri - 

THANKS!

Pairing: Napoleon/Illya

Genre: Slash/AU

Feedback: Please, be gentle!

Author’s Notes: Thank the Lord this story is finally done! I have worked on it for about two years. The boys have made me change special occasions, and holidays, so many times its not funny!

Disclaimer: They have each other! Illya never joined UNCLE; pre-NCIS Donald Mallard

Summary: On Christmas Eve, 1963, Napoleon decides to take a walk; Illya takes a short cut - fate steps in; on Christmas Eve, 1983, fate gets help from a pre-NCIS Donald ‘Ducky’ Mallard

 

 

Christmas Eve 2006

PROLOGUE

 

The two men huddled together in the frigid dawn as firefighters fought to keep the fire from spreading to nearby buildings; yet, even as that battle raged, they knew it was lost.

 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the walls of the building fell with a resounding crash.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo,” a young firefighter apologized sadly.

 

The seventy-five old Napoleon Solo smiled at the younger man. “No need for apologizes, son, you did your best. We thank you.”

 

“We would like to see if anything is salvageable when the metal cools,” added Solo’s

slightly younger companion, Illya Kuryakin.

 

“Yes, sir,” the firefighter assured, then left to rejoin his comrades against the stubborn blaze.

 

Napoleon tightened his embrace on the man in his arms. “All you worked so hard to build, love. Gone. I’m sorry.”

 

Illya returned the embrace. “Material things, ‘Polya. I still have you and that is all I’ve ever needed in this world.”

 

“My sentiments exactly,” Napoleon whispered, as he tilted his lover’s chin up to claim a kiss.

 

At that moment Illya’s stomach decided to make its presence known. Both men laughed; it was an old joke between them.

 

“C’mon, my bottomless pit, let’s feed you,” Napoleon teased.

 

“A Napoleon brandy sounds good,” Illya whispered, seductively.

 

“Hedonist!” Napoleon countered, lovingly.

 

The banter continued as they made their way through the now thinning crowd and towards The Black Russian Café.

 

As they walked both men were silent; each remembering how it all had begun over forty-three years ago.

 

INKLOVESNSINKLOVESN SINKLOVESNSINKLO VESNSINKLOVESNSI NK

 

Christmas Eve 1963

 

Napoleon Solo had no idea what had prompted him to leave the safety of the Christmas Eve party he had been invited to, and go down to The Village this time of night; but, he hadn’t risen to the position of CEA of UNCLE by ignoring his instincts. So it was he found himself outside one of many novelty shops that dotted the area, when the sound of angry voices from the nearby alley caught his attention.

 

Moving with extreme caution, his gun drawn, he followed the sound. As he rounded a corner, he found the source of the disturbance. In the dim lighting he could barely make out the shape of four men, yet it was obvious, even at his distance from them the odds were three against one. He moved closer, listening... ..

 

"I’ve got parts worth paintin’, sweet cheeks,” crooned one of the thugs.

 

"I doubt it,” replied a defiant voice.

 

Something in that voice stirred Napoleon as nothing had before, yet he hadn’t a clue why. What he was certain of was their intent: rape!

 

"Hey, boys, he doubts it,” a second attacker observed.

 

"He’s not being friendly,” observed the third.

 

"Well, then,” the leader decided. "Let’s teach the little fag some manners."

 

"Let’s not,” Napoleon replied emerging from the shadows.

 

The three thugs spun around to face the intruder, and in doing so, revealed their captive.

 

Words failed Napoleon as he beheld what could only be described as a vision: hair, like spun gold, shimmered even in the dull light; this crowned an intelligent forehead; sky blue eyes, a straight nose, and lips that would tempt the most pious were set in a face of almost unearthly beauty; the tight fitting black pants and turtle-neck enhanced a lithe compact body.

 

"Says who, pops?" the leader demanded, bringing Napoleon back to the matter at hand.

 

Napoleon stepped into the light. "I say,” he replied. "You boys need to be on your way."

 

"You a cop?” demanded a skinny red-headed teenager.

 

"No. Much worse."

 

"Betcha he’s a ‘john’ ” muttered the third.

 

The leader leered as his eyes raked over the intruders expensive clothes. "Yeah,” he agreed. "Looking for a piece of sweet ass, pops?" he asked, pointing to the blond. "We could share."

 

 

“What I’m looking for is none of your concern,” the UNCLE agent replied, calmly. He noticed the blond stiffen at his words. "What you are going to do,” he continued, "is let the young man leave."

 

The attackers, tired of the intruder’s interference, and eager to get back to their prey, turned to face the older man.

 

What happened next took less than a minute as a blond tornado laid waste the leader.

 

The remaining attackers stared in silence, just for a moment, then moved towards the blond.

 

"Excuse me. Aren’t we forgetting someone?"

 

The youngest hoodlum - Napoleon guessed about age 16 - spun and aimed a karate kick at the older man’s groin and found himself flying through the air. The remaining two ran.

 

When Napoleon was certain there was no more danger he turned to check on the blond only to find himself totally alone. "Just my luck,” he muttered to the darkness, "he has to be the shy type."

 

Brushing himself off, he left the alley and turned in the direction of his own penthouse as the clock struck midnight.

 

The blond watched from the safety of the shadows as his rescuer left, a sigh escaping his cupid-bow lips - another Christmas Eve alone.

 

INKLOVESNSINKLOVESNSNKLOVESNSKLOVESNS

 

Christmas Eve 1983

 

Donald Mallard, ‘Ducky’ to his closest friends, knocked on the door marked PRIVATE.

 

“Come!” the occupant invited.

 

Mallard obeyed and found his host wearing only a faded pair of jeans. His eyes swept over the Russian’s physique. Time had been very kind. Despite age, the body was still lithe and fit, as 

the jeans attested to.

 

He had known Illya Nicolaievich Kuryakin - a.k.a. VANYA, since their days together at Sherbourne in Paris - exactly twenty years ago.

 

His mind went back to their first meeting. He had decided to add drawing and painting to his resume. The first thing he noticed about the blond was their uncanny resemblance. “Good God! You’re me!” he’d exclaimed.

 

Once they had stopped laughing, they began to relished the confusion, and the rumors that they were brothers.

 

To this day, they’d never seen fit to correct the misconception.

 

“Do your thoughts require a penny or American Express?”

 

The voice brought Mallard back to the present. He grinned. “Sorry. I see you’re not dressed for the party yet.”

 

“No.”

 

The sadness in Kuryakin’s voice was not lost on Mallard. “May I ask a question?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“What is it about this day that makes you so sad?”

 

Illya sighed and turned towards his bedroom. “It was the most unlucky night of my life,” came the cryptic reply.

 

When there was nothing more forthcoming, Mallard followed the Russian. What he saw upon entering stopped him in his tracks.

 

Illya was standing before two mannequins - their features so detailed, and life-like, they almost seemed real. Each was outfitted in formal dress.

 

For a moment Mallard ignored the younger one and concentrated on the other. It took all his will to remain silent as a face as familiar to him as his own stared back at him.

 

This one was slightly older. The tuxedo was of an elegant black velvet – not a blue black or a charcoal black but a true black. The lapels were edged with tiny black sequins held in place with tiny jet beads. The cummerbund was of dark grey watered silk and his only concession to the holiday was a single small green shamrock tuck discretely into the folds of his white linen handkerchief that was carried in his pocket.

 

The younger one, definitely Illya, wanted to complete the picture of dark and light and honor his heritage and so he designed a tuxedo of dark red satin. The trim was of antique burnished gold with small epaulets on each shoulder and gold filigree trim around the buttons on the sleeves. and boldly worn on his chest was a sampling of the many heroic decorations that his grandfather had earned for many years of service to the Czar. They were the only things of value the Nazis had not taken.

 

The idea was to have the black and red complement each other, but Illya’s dazzling youthful appearance made the slightly older one look as if he were in attendance to a young Cossack 

War Lord.

 

“Who is he?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

 

lllya’s expression softened. “Remember what I told you about my rescue years ago?”

 

Mallard nodded. “Often.”

 

Illya ignored the sarcasm. “This,” he reached up and caressed the face of the older mannequin, was done from memory,” he continued.

 

A wicked flash of inspirational lightning hit Mallard. “May I borrow the tux and all accessories?”

 

Illya eyed his friend suspiciously. “Why?”

 

“Richard and I are bringing a guest, as allowed. It would fit him perfectly.”

 

//Probably trying to set me up again// Illya thought to himself, but relented. After all, it was a VANYA original and VANYA never turned down an opportunity to ‘show off’. There was also the fact that many of his media friends always attended his parties, publicity was assured. “I made it with him in mind,” he whispered, as he undressed the mannequin.

 

//Perhaps, one day, I’ll actually get to do this// he prayed as, wi he handed each piece of clothing over to Mallard.

 

Mallard took the merchandise. “I’ll be back at 7 sharp! Be wearing the other tux!”

 

Before Illya could question the strange order the older man was gone.

 

INKLOVESNSINKLOVESN SINKLOVESNS

 

Napoleon Solo sighed as he looked out from the balcony at the bejeweled skyline of New York. It wasn’t from boredom and, definitely, not from lack of prospective companionship. No! This night was his to reflect on that unforgettable encounter... .

 

The shrill ringing of the phone distracted him. “Solo here,” he said into the receiver.

 

“Greetings, dear boy!”

 

Napoleon’s generous mouth broke into a grin that lit his eyes. “Ducky!! Is Richard with you?”

 

“Naturally!”

 

Napoleon chuckled. “Naturally. C’mon up!” he invited.

 

Ten minutes later, locks secure, the three friends stood in the middle of the well-appointed living room of Solo’s penthouse.

 

“Drink?” Solo offered, nodding towards the mini-bar.

 

Ducky shook his head. He held up the tux and accessories. “No time. We’ve got to get you dressed!”

 

Napoleon frowned in confusion. “And where are WE going?”

 

Mallard grinned. “WE are going to VANYA’s Christmas Eve bash!”

 

For several seconds Napoleon stared at his friends as if noticing them for the first time. “You’re kidding,” he challenged.

 

Richard McPherson laid a gentle hand on Solo’s shoulder. “We are not and we have forty minutes! To the bedroom!”

 

INKLOVESNSINKLOVESN SINKLOVESNS

 

Illya scrutinized himself, thoroughly, in the full-length mirror gracing he door to his private bedroom. He had followed Mallard’s instructions and had to admit, he looked gorgeous.

 

A knock on the door interrupted him. “Yes?”

 

The door opened and closed softly. “Are you decent” Mallard inquired.

 

“Make yourself comfortable, Don; I’ll be out in a minute,” he replied.

 

Mallard snorted and looked at his silent, awe-struck companion. “Nervous?”

 

“You bet I am!” Napoleon countered. “ I mean, really, Ducky. I’m standing here, in VANYA’s private quarters. Why me?”

 

Before Mallard could reply, a voice issued from the behind them. “Okay. Turn around so I can see how you look,” it demanded.

 

Napoleon swallowed hard and obeyed. Whatever uneasiness he had been feeling vanished as he beheld the person who had haunted his days and filled his nights with sweet fantasies. “My God! It’s you!” he exclaimed.

 

Illya, too, was struck speechless by the figure before him - those features, still handsome, he could never forget. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you; to know you are all right,” he whispered, barely concealing the delight in his voice.

 

Napoleon’s face lit in a smile that threatened to become permanent. “It’s great to see you, too,” Solo replied; and he meant it. “A day hasn’t gone by that I didn’t think about you; hoped you were alive and well.” He looked around him. “I think it is safe to say you are both.”

 

Illya blushed, not so much from the compliment, but from the fact that his most wished for dream had come true.

 

Suddenly it occurred to both men at the same time: they had not been properly introduced.

 

As if on cue, Mallard moved to stand between the two men. He held out a hand to each and, like a magnet, pulled them to him. He nodded to Napoleon. “Napoleon Antonio Solo, permit me to introduce Illya Nicolaeivich Kuryakin, a.k.a. VANYA.” He paused and watched, with great delight, the awestruck look that came over Napoleon’s features.

 

“You’re VANYA?” Napoleon blurted out.

 

Illya nodded. The smile on his face matched Napoleon’s. He bowed, slightly, disengaged his hand from Mallard’s, and took the American’s free one. “You have no idea how long I have waited, and prayed, for this moment,” he confessed.

 

Napoleon took the offered hand and pulled the younger man to him. When he finally could speak, their faces were inches apart. “My sentiments exactly”, he whispered.

 

Mallard spoke again. “Illya Nicolaievich Kuryakin may I introduce Napoleon Antonio Solo, President and CEO of SoloCom.”

 

Now it was Illya’s turn to be startled. Of course he had heard of the company; however, not knowing his rescuer’s name, he would never have put two-and-two together. “Even when you rescued me?”

 

Napoleon chuckled. “No. I was an agent for the United Network...”

 

“....Command for Law Enforcement?” Illya finished.

 

Napoleon was impressed. “Yes. Not many civilians know of our organization.”

 

Illya chuckled. “You’d be surprised at my list of clientele.”

 

Both men suddenly remembered Mallard; but, when they turned to where they had last seen the Scot, he was no longer there.

 

Solo grinned at Kuryakin. “Now much do you want to bet he arranged this?”

 

Illya laughed. “Obviously he’s known us both without knowing the connection and, once he saw my mannequins.. .”

 

Napoleon’s eyebrows lifted. “Mannequins?”

 

Illya’s reply was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. “Yes?” he called out, not releasing Napoleon’s hand.

 

Mallard stuck his head in. “We’re departing for the party and, don’t worry, I’ll inform your guests you’ll be a bit late,” he announced, his blue-gray eyes alight with mischief.

 

Both men nodded. It was Napoleon who replied. “Thanks from the bottom of our hearts, Ducky.”

 

Mallard beamed. “You are both welcome.”

 

The last was said to the retreating backs of the two soon-to-be lovers.

 

INKLOVESNSINKLOVESNSINKLOVESNSINKLOVESNS


End file.
